Assume

Let’s break down the word assume: Ass U Me. How’s that sound now?

Sounds to me like you and I are both asses if we assume, but we do it, almost every day of our lives. Ever wonder why that is?

My guess, based on my experience and obvious lack of information along the way, is that we’re too easily influenced by hype, need for acceptance and just plain lazy asses.

I have, or I should say had, because I think they disowned me for reasons they either refuse to state or seem to have some form of proof of my guilt, in either case, none that I know of are aware of the big picture, but they assume I am guilty as charged.

I will be the first to admit there are issues, many of which I’m guessing none of these assumptive rejectionists are well informed about, nor do they care to be. What they do care about it their ability to speak freely on matters pertaining to me as though they are experts on my life and philosophy.

What fools we be, to bend the knee, and blindly reject what we refuse to see.

I’ve learned that through writing and, probably more importantly, editing, the value of citations (aka cites) to substantiate a point; example:

“Jimmy stole Johnnie’s laptop! He should be arrested!”

First question that comes to my mind now is, how do you know this is true?

“Umm, er, ahh, well Johnnie told me.”

Second question, how does Johnnie know?

“I dunno, but he said he did.”

Pretty classic assumption on the part of junior, but not provable in court, unless of course, Johnnie has a pic, a recording, or a witness, all of which are, in essence, citations.

Had junior said, Johnnie said, “Sally saw Jimmy take his laptop, you would have a citation.” (OMG, I’m dating myself with those names; can’t wait to mention Spot.)

The issue is this, an assumption is nothing more than unproven idea based on no facts.

In writing, especially college level, citations are critical to every paper a student may write. If you’re quoting (citing) a comment in a book, you need to identify the book, author, page(s) and other information that allows the reader to access your proof.

In a court of law, what is a witness? Basically, a witness is a living citation. (I’m stretching the definition, but hey, if you’re starting to understand better, it’s worth it.

So let’s take this a step further with Credible Citations. Obviously, in our little scenario, Johnnie is not a very credible witness cause he “dunno.” He is assuming, not proving his claim.

In writing, one must employ credible citations or risk being challenged for plagiarism (stealing someone else’s ideas, work, etc.) which can destroy your hopes of ever being truly believable.

Would this be a credible citation: “Sally said, Johnnie said Jimmie took his laptop?” Nope, why look at the spelling of Jimmy. Small error, but a critical one, especially in court.

How about this one: Sally said Jimmy showed her his “new” laptop and she saw Johnnie’s name scratched on the bottom. Yes, you have witness and source point for verification.

The same principle holds true when writing example: “We have only just begun to fight.” With the quotation marks, we are claiming it as a direct quote, not an assumption. Now we need to show who or what we’re citing and where we got it.

Franklin D. Roosevelt, October 31, 1936, https://patriotpost.us/documents/284. This is a very simple format, college level formats are more detailed, but it gives you a path to the statement.

Learning to cite, or if you prefer, quote people, places or things in your life decreases a tendency to assume facts are true, rather than proving them because assuming makes an ASS of U and ME.

Assumptions are the tools of the trade for those wanting to control people. “You must believe me because I know everything.” But cannot prove anything but you must assume I do.

Everyday, I hear people demanding we make assumptions on matters because their information comes from polls, experts and people who know. What pools, what experts and what people, they rarely provide those details.

I think the most tragic and demoralizing display of assumption by propaganda came with the attack on the Covington Catholic High School student who simply stood and smiled at someone harassing him, and his fellow students. Allegedly, through the use of well edited video, propagandists manipulated the situation to make it appear that the student was the culprit in this incident. As a result, assumptions were made by many radical extremists that the high schools kids were at fault and threats were made against them. Thankfully, an unedited version of the incident showed that the high school students neither physically nor verbally assaulted anyone but, because the original edited video was shown by mainstream media without citation, it was assumed to be correct and the threats keep coming.

The result of these assumptions may affect innocent people for years to come. It could have been avoided, but no wanted to verify until it was too late.

How should love be shown?

I’m curious, do all people demonstrate their affection for another in the classic romantic manners of the movies and novels?

Of those that do, can you tell me if that truly makes a difference or are there other acceptable ways to demonstrate your love for another.

Now, before anyone chews my head off, I want to explain something here. I’m not against the romantic love as seen in movies and novels but I am against fake demonstrations of love.

Anyone else ever heard this phrase? “You have to love me for me! Accept me as I am!”

Umm, nope, I do not have to love anyone period. I love those I choose to love and I show my affection for them in a thousand different ways, but I don’t say I love you 100 times a day, nor will I kiss you if you smoke.

Why you ask? Because you didn’t smoke when I fell in love with you, your smoking clings to your clothing and hair and I don’t kiss ashtrays.

Will I still love you? Yes.

How about hearing this: “Why don’t you snuggle and spoon with me in bed?”

I’ll start with the smoking issue here and add on, you breath also smells like stale beer and vomit, you just puked all over the bathroom and I think you forgot to unzip your pants to piss.

Will I still love you? Yes.

Why can’t we afford to go on a nice vacation like others do?”

Since you’ve been using your credit card everyday to buy packs of cigarettes for $8.00 each in your fancy bars, I’ll start with your smoking. I’ll follow that up with the bar tab receipt you dropped showing how much you enjoy aged Scotch and imported ales. Last, but certainly not least, let me mention the money you lost at the casino when you said you were at your friend’s house. Don’t worry, I covered the car payment but there may be an issue with the rent again, and it was nice of the Casino to take your car keys and send you home in a cab.

Will I still love you? Yes.

By the way, I forgot to mention someone by the name of Kelly, not sure if it’s a guy or a girl, keeps calling for you. Won’t tell me what it’s about or give me a number for you to call back. Not sure what it’s all about but the last call came in from a state STD clinic.

Will I still love you? Yes.

You ask why there is no longer any affection between us, it’s pretty simple.

I love you, always have and maybe always will, but now I have to love me more.

Have we lost all reason?

This morning I woke up to the headlines that the State of New York is now basically proclaiming the title of Infanticide Capitol of the World.

Wow, what a success to write to your grandchildren about. Er, wait, if they’re murdering innocents, you may not have any grandchildren. As a matter of fact, if you promote mass infanticide you may not have any children period.

I won’t apologize for my opinion that anyone and everyone who believes in and supports non-essential abortion on demand is a criminal; a murderer of the innocents. Those who profit from these murders are beyond redemption as humane people.

I’m not an innocent soul, I fathered a child out of wedlock when I was nineteen. That was back in the days when they only performed abortions in the very early stages of pregnancy by doing Dilation and Curettage (D&C) procedures:

D&C (Dilation and Curettage) Procedure: Surgery and Recovery

My child, a girl, was born and immediately given up for adoption by her mother; I had no say in the matter, nor was I allowed to see my biological daughter. I did learn, many years later that she was adopted by a wonderful couple who could have no children. They loved her from the first moment they met and, to the best of my knowledge, still do.

Now days, we don’t hear stories like this. What we do hear is how professional, for profit, infanticide factories murder the innocents for their body parts.

What has become of humanity in America?

What gives anyone the right to murder an innocent who may have the genetic makeup to do great things in our world? Perhaps another Einstein, Peter the Great, Michelangelo, Madame Curie, Rosa Parks or Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.? Yes, or maybe a Hitler, Stalin, Caligula or Jack the Ripper; we don’t know, but can we take the risk?

Who will hear the cries of pain when the infant is torn from the mother’s womb? Who will hold that child close while he or she suffers the poison injected into his or her brain?

Is there a place on this earth for the discards known as “aborted fetuses?” Are they burned in crematoriums like the Jews, or thrown in pits like the Armenians? Are they thrown to the wild animals in the mountains the way Russians once did?

Who will mourn for the innocents? Who will answer their pleas of

“WHY?”

“WHAT DID I DO?”

“HELP ME MOMMY, IT HURT SO BAD!”

There are very few legitimate reasons for abortion, but thousand of reasons against it; each one, an innocent.

Have we, as humans who claim to care, lost all reason that we must punish the innocents for our failure to think, to care and to acknowledge our mistakes rather than bury them.

“Why mommy? What did I do?”

On Being Alone

I wonder how many people really know what it’s like to be utterly alone in our busy world?

I’m not talking about just having no close friends or family, I’m talking about having no one.

Imagine yourself moving to a large city where you know no one. All you have are your clothes on your back, a candy bar and a half bottle of warm water. Suddenly, everything you once knew is different; alien to what you thought. Even people you once thought friends, now seem to be strangers ignoring your silent pleas for help; some will, but most won’t help – you’ve become a leper.

You don’t know anything about where you are, nor do you know anyone to ask. You have been abruptly cast out of your home with no money, no food, very little clothing, no transportation, and the list of noes goes on until it comes to, where do I go to the bathroom? What do I use for toilet paper? How can I bathe? I have no toothpaste! Where can I lay down; be safe and out of the weather to sleep? Rather than looking through the store windows as you walk, you look down; searching for lost change, dropped jewelry, anything of value to buy you a hot meal, or even a hot cup of coffee.

Now repeat that feeling every day for the remainder of your life because this is the life of a homeless person who moves from one city block to another.

That’s the life of a homeless person; an experience I led for a while.

I find it tragic that when I hear someone say, “That woman is begging to can get money for dope!”

How do you know that; maybe it’s the sallow looking kid holding her hand that gave you a clue?

The flip side of the coin is the clean, groomed younger person standing by the freeway ramp with a sign that says; “Homeless, need help for food.”

 Is he lying? One might think so, but then perhaps he knows a gas station that has a bathroom where he can clean up before panhandling? We don’t know.

Whatever the case, being entirely alone with no one to turn to is the most horrifying experience we can experience. There is no age restriction for the homeless; you’re accepted whether you’re 105 or a newborn, but I feel those who suffer the worst may be the elderly who have no one to turn to for a hug, a chat and perhaps an I love you Grandma. The emptiness is unlike any feeling I’ve ever had, and I don’t know how to explain it. I pray no one else ever has to feel it.

Being alone is painful enough, but being homeless and lonely is life destroying.

Alone again.

As a child, I spend a lot of my time alone, isolated from the rest of my family by the strict rules of my mother who believed in encapsulating in certain areas of her life. It was tough for me, especially when I started elementary school because I couldn’t bring any friends home which would have been great if someone had taught me how to make a friend. I did, in time, make one friend; his name was Henry, and he was my buddy.

In retrospect, I think Henry found me and took the effort to become my friends because he saw the loneliness. Today, thinking back on our friendship, I honestly think Henry was the first person I loved; not love in the physical sense, but the love of having someone care and caring in return. We met in the second grade, and during those years, we walked to school together, talked and collected glass containers for their deposit, but he never came to my house; he couldn’t because he was black and I was a strawberry-blonde white boy with freckles. But we were real friends. I lost track of him the summer of my fourth grade when my family moved from our apartment over our store on Franklin Avenue in Minneapolis, Minnesota to a house in Bloomington, Minnesota where I had to walk to school alone; alone, scared and lonely.

            It wasn’t too long after we moved that Henry and his family also moved. I don’t know where they relocated to, nor could I find out; I had lost Henry. Several years later, when I was working as an Emergency Room Orderly (we weren’t called ER techs back then) at Minneapolis General Hospital, a white lady came in with someone who was ill. She looked very familiar to me, but I couldn’t place where I knew her from. After her friend was taken into an exam room, she came over to me and said, “are you my honey boy?” There was only one person who ever called me “Honey Boy” and that was Henry’s mom because she said my hair looked like golden honey in the summer sun. I melted! I literally lost it. I put my arms around her and broke down, crying like a baby right in front of everyone. My charge nurse, Olive Lindbergh, took us into a private room and told me to take a break.

            The first thing Henry’s mom said to me before I could even ask, was “He’s gone, baby. Henry is with God now.” I almost fainted. (I’m not ashamed to say, that as I write this now, I am crying.) When I calmed down, she told me told me that Henry had tried to contact me by leaving notes at our store, but I never got any of them. He had wanted me to know where they were moving to and how to get in touch, but I never got them. Then, the summer of his eighteenth birthday, while sitting on the front stoop of their house, Henry died peacefully. His heart, the biggest heart I’ve ever known in my life, gave out. Henry had been born with a heart defect, but he never told me because he didn’t want me to pity him, he wanted me to be his friend.

            I stayed in touch with Henry’s mom and dad until they too left me to join Henry. That was when I really started to feel alone. I had no family support, nor good friends in my life. I had only me and a need to be with people. I went on in my life searching for a connection, a person who would be like Henry; kind, smart and always there for me; needless to say, I made a lot of tragic mistakes along the way. Now, I’m seventy-five years old and alone again, only this time it’s worse than ever before because I’m losing some of my survival abilities to cope with life in this day and age.

            I am alone again, and this time it’s different. (continued in “Loneliness”)

Thank you for your gift.

Just before Christmas, you left. You finished packing, took the couch and wide screen TV I bought you, and you left. Am I supposed to mourn?

After you were gone, your friend, the one you claim was going to commit suicide if you left, sent me a rather immature, nasty note filled with half-truths and outright lies about why you left. I laughed when I read the part about how you stopped this person from acting against me, because you left! Should I cry and wail because you left?

No, there are no tears to cry, nor recriminations to feel because you left me long ago.

You left me when you decided our home was your hotel room with the full maid service.

You left me when lied to me about going to college while I was working an extra job so you could.

You left me when you started drinking heavily and finding excuses for the damage and lack of maintenance for the three used cars I bought you so you could get to school.

You left me when you cheated and ended up with genital herpes.

You left me when the hundreds of dollars I spent to get you periodontal care so you wouldn’t lose you teeth, was wasted because you were too lazy to follow the dentist’s directions.

You left me when you decided you didn’t have to repay money I loaned you, even after you proclaimed on numerous occasions that you always pay your debts.

You left me when you decided your only responsibilities in our home was to sleep, shower, watch anime and other childish TV shows while making a mess in the kitchen which, of course, I always had to clean up.

You left me when you started coming home drunk, smelling of cigarettes and cheap cigars and, on occasion, your own puke, and wanting someone to cuddle you.

Worst of all, you left me when you refused to communicate without telling me lies.

There is more but it’s no longer of use to talk about them because you will probably never read this; you will simply say, “It was all his fault.”

So I say this, to you, and those like you, thank you for your gift of leaving. It means more and more to me every day to know I tried, and you failed.

I AM ME, IT’S ALL I CAN BE.

IN WANT I DID DISCOVER,

FIXED TRUTH HAD COME TO ME.

MY SEARCH SUSTAINED BY PAIN,

DEAR LABOR MEANT TO BE.

SEEKING TRUTH, I OFTEN FLOUNDERED,

INNER VISION BLIND TO FATE.

SELF-LOATHING’S HEAVY BURDEN,

BORN DOWN BY PRIMAL HATE.

ONCE THOUGHTS OF SELF DESTRUCTION,

BROUGHT ME TO LIFE’S DOOR.

THERE FACED BY SELF-WORTH CHOICE,

MY LIFE JOURNEY IN LAST SEASON.

PASSION TO EXPLOIT SORROW,

DID YIELD TO TIME OF REASON.

NOW I STAND BEFORE YOU,

A MAN TRIED IN FIRES OF TIME,

NEITHER PERFECT NOR SPECIAL AM I.

AWAITING DEATH’S TOLL TO CHIME.

LET ALL WHO ASK REMEMBER,

TO CHALLENGE THOUGHTS OF FEAR,

FOR EACH MUST LEARN AS I DID,

TO ALWAYS KEEP MIND CLEAR.

FOR I AM WHO I AM,

IMPERFECT AS I MAY BE.

I AM WHO I AM,

PERHAPS YOU ARE LIKE ME.